FIC: Match
Title: Match
Author: aestheticjunkie
Rating: PG
Characters: Jayne, River
Pairing: None
Word Count: 259
Challenge: Redux of #36 - No Dialogue
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes: River and Jayne and uneven odds.
She almost bit the hand that suddenly covered her mouth - one minute alone, next minute behind her and to the right - until she recognized the mind pattern and his scent, gun oil and clean sweat, slight wisp of sage from the dry shampoo he used twice a week. His hand on her shoulder then, pressed down hard, turning her in the pitch black towards the door of the cell. Walls damp and cool against her shaking fingers, solid bulk of his presence almost making her weep with relief. Her breathing was loud in the void and he squeezed her hand gently. She remembered to pause, to even herself out, to breathe smooth and deep and undetected.
The door opened on oiled silent hinges, her bare feet soundless on the clammy stone, the barest hint of shine from his gun now, reflecting off the light sliver of moon visible through metal grates high up the wall. In her hand a pistol then, a .38 with a rough plastic grip, sure fit in her small hands.
He struck a match.
His shirt was black and so were his pants and boots and he wore no soft bullet-proof vest, never had, and he lit the half-cigar with a certain defiance against the six men revealed in the corridor, three to each side of them. He fixed the nearest with a dead stare and a grin, white teeth around the stump of cigar, smoke curling lazily across the match-bloom. His eyes cut to hers. He nodded.
River smiled. The match went out.
-end
Author: aestheticjunkie
Rating: PG
Characters: Jayne, River
Pairing: None
Word Count: 259
Challenge: Redux of #36 - No Dialogue
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes: River and Jayne and uneven odds.
She almost bit the hand that suddenly covered her mouth - one minute alone, next minute behind her and to the right - until she recognized the mind pattern and his scent, gun oil and clean sweat, slight wisp of sage from the dry shampoo he used twice a week. His hand on her shoulder then, pressed down hard, turning her in the pitch black towards the door of the cell. Walls damp and cool against her shaking fingers, solid bulk of his presence almost making her weep with relief. Her breathing was loud in the void and he squeezed her hand gently. She remembered to pause, to even herself out, to breathe smooth and deep and undetected.
The door opened on oiled silent hinges, her bare feet soundless on the clammy stone, the barest hint of shine from his gun now, reflecting off the light sliver of moon visible through metal grates high up the wall. In her hand a pistol then, a .38 with a rough plastic grip, sure fit in her small hands.
He struck a match.
His shirt was black and so were his pants and boots and he wore no soft bullet-proof vest, never had, and he lit the half-cigar with a certain defiance against the six men revealed in the corridor, three to each side of them. He fixed the nearest with a dead stare and a grin, white teeth around the stump of cigar, smoke curling lazily across the match-bloom. His eyes cut to hers. He nodded.
River smiled. The match went out.
-end